


Sappy

by Negative_pines_creep



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Controlling Bill, F/M, I'm new to AO3, Love Triangle, M/M, Paranoid Ford, Reader-Insert, Takes place in the 1980s, also battles suicidal thoughts, it's going to get weird, reader has depression because of past events, so there's a few tws, threesomes tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Negative_pines_creep/pseuds/Negative_pines_creep
Summary: You had tried so hard to find your infinity, but you had found them instead. Maybe they were the infinity you needed at the time, and of course, they were a dangerous love too, a love that would cost you infinites inside other infinites.Ford Pines x reader x Bill Cipher
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Ford Pines, Bill Cipher/Reader, Bill Cipher/You, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Ford Pines/Reader, Ford Pines/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter One.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to ao3 and I'm a younger writer, so heh, go easy on me I guess. If anyone has any constructive criticism or words of advice, chuck 'em at me.

A trigger warning: Reader has depression because of past events, this will probably affect the story later down in the line. And it correlates with suicidal thoughts, so please stay safe while reading.

  
Supermarket, noun, a large self-service shop selling foods and house-hold goods. You could say you were currently in a supermarket, scanning through the neatly arranged aisles to find the one particular object you so desperately needed. It was pelting rain outside, God’s tears thrusting down loudly onto the roof of the building, the biggest building in Gravity Falls, Oregon.

  
You happened to live in the small, peculiar, sleepy, Pacific Northwest town, you were one of it’s many around 10,000 inhabitants. Most people knew you, from the standard pizza guy, to the local delivery man, not forgetting the elderly old-timers who worked at the library. And even in here at the supermarket, people greeted you with polite ‘Hi’s’ and ‘Hellos’, and even, rarely, ‘How are you’s?’.  
You returned the merry interactions, smiling where and when you could. But alas, not discounting how many times you had ran into people by accident, you had to go back to the task at hand, searching for the object you needed. And there it was after strenuous searching, aisle number five, beneath the eye-stabbing pool of harsh luminescent light and the generic elevator music tinning through air.

  
You approached the aisle, approached the object, approached the imminent beyond it would bring for you. The rope. What you had been looking for all this time. Depression, noun, feelings of severe despondency and dejection. You could say you were depressed, miserable, always under the weather, not especially very cut out for happiness.  
But it wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t had a say in all the terrible things that had happened to you, the universe had just declared you ready. When you weren’t ready at all. And out-smarting the universe, well, that just took a kind of strength and peace of mind you didn’t harbour yet. Too many challenges had been weighed down over your shoulders at such a young age, and with you growing up, you had yet to grow out of them. Trauma, noun, a deeply distressing-. Nope. Nope. Nope.  
You wouldn’t go there. You wouldn’t dare recount the poison-infested, toxic, twisted memories.

Thinking about them only dragged you back into an even worse mind-set, with long, morbid, cruel reaches of pain and suffering. You would just search for the rope, the one thing that would bring upon your ultimate destruction. And when you had found one coil of the material that looked sturdy and strong, you wept.  
You wept at the feet of your demise, aisle five, Gravity Falls, Oregon, the United States of America, Earth, the Milky Way, what you wouldn’t even be shocked to know was probably a simulation, who knew what this life truly was, within a galaxy, within the breaches of your own mis-firing nerve cells. You cried, the tears streaming down your cheeks, all the while happy strollers just simply ambled past you with their shopping carts full of liquor and chocolate treats.

  
No one cared. No one cared that you were suffering. At face value, you were only a pretty, objectively-attractive face to them, and nothing more than that. No one cared that you were about to bring upon your own death. Death, noun, the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism. Maybe it was a sign, the despondency of crying on the dirty floor at the supermarket, a sign that you should just hurry up and get it done with.  
Maybe, noun- “Hey, are you alright? Can I ask why you’re crying at the supermarket?” A voice suddenly questioned you with that, a male’s voice that was slightly more deeper than slightly more lighter. You turned, turned to face a young man with rounded glasses and brown hair. He was assessing you in concern, his bushy eyebrows knitted together.

  
“Um, hi, you know, just because, uhhh, because…..’” Because, conjunction, for the reason that; since. “Because, what?” You were too scared to tell the man with glasses, and either way, it wasn’t his business at all. “It’s nothing. It’s fine. No really, it’s ok. No reason. I just had some glitter in my eye.” You muttered that with tears strewing in your eyes, tears that were obviously not glitter, tears that continued to escape your own mental mindset down your cheeks, all the while with you stringing a rope away from its display stand.  
Two meters of rope. Your destruction. A coil of power around the soft, tempting flesh of your throat, and then, the final noun that would start with a ‘d’ and end with a ‘eath’. How very nice. “Hey, you’re not thinking about using that rope against yourself, are you?” The sound of rain was very apparent for a few seconds, a soft pitter platter in the background of your hearing, but then you turned on your heels and ushered away at once.

  
“Miss? Hello? Miss?” The man with glasses followed you, his brown hair flopping with his movement. You were irritated, to put it lightly, and vexed, because why would this random man want to take care of a lost, internally destroyed, still-crying tragedy like yourself?  
“Why do you care? Why is _your_ hair messy? Why is paranoia crinkling your eyes? Why aren’t you standing up to your demons?” You shot those questions back at the man, wanting to shake him off your trail. And, ahem, excuse me, one _demon_ , **singular** , but you didn’t know that yet.  
“My name is Stanford Pines. I’ve seen you around town. I’ve always wanted to know your name.” You then reached the closest check-out stand, intending to buy the rope immediately before ushering away from this ‘Stanford Pines’. “Didn’t ask, don’t care Mr. Pines. But it’s Y/N, anyway, seeing I’m going to die soon.” The heavy-set elderly man in front of you finished scanning his treating, high sugar, un-nutritious items, now placing them in a paper bag.

  
“Y/N. Why are you going to die soon?” Soon. Adverb. In or after a short time. “That’s none of your business at all, Mr. Pines. Why are you being so nosy?” “Because it looks like you’re intending to create your own death. You were in the rope aisle. And you were crying. And you’ve probably faced challenges in the past. And these challenges have probably twisted your mind, dulling everything in the world to a grey, monotone color.”  
Right. Right. Right. Right. Right. And right. Dammit! He was a smart one, that Stanford Pines. “So what, maybe I do want to die. It’s none of your concern Stanford Pines, go back to your house in the woods. Why were **_you_** in the rope aisle, anyway? See? You have been out-witted.” The scientist’s glance flickered to his hands, suspiciously hiding a secret about where his own mind was. Wait, what? You noticed in a pissed off, dissociated haze, that he had six fingers, which would make sense, as he certainly was a full finger more annoying than normal.

  
You humped, and then moved up to the checkout, the cashier scanning your one item. They glanced up at you with an analyzing, criticizing look, but them glumly, with their shoulders drooping, just shrugged, like you probably weren’t worth their time. The sound of the barcode beeped, and then the cashier bagged the rope noisily.  
“But uh, objectively, that’s wrong. Suicide is wrong.” S. The S word was wrong. Suicide. Noun. The act of taking one’s own life voluntarily and intentionally. You purchased the rope in cash, with two ten’s, then lugging the heavy brown paper bag with you. “What are you going to do about it, Mr Pines?” “I can report you. I can report you to the cops. They’ll stop you, you know, they can admit you to an in-patient hospital, or wherever they see fit, for a psychiatric evaluation, or whatever.”  
“You’re going to report me to those two dumb and dumber cops? Seriously? Good luck with that. They’re both thicker than a bowl of oatmeal.” “Then please don’t do it. Thrown the rope away. This is not worth it.” You exited the supermarket, standing out by the rainy, miserable front entrance. Stanford Filbrick Pines followed you.

  
“I just blew twenty dollars on that. But fine. I’ll throw the rope out. What a waste of money, and you, I was just thinking about what to write on my note . And I need a ride home, as well. It’s raining buckets.” The man with glasses looked at you expectantly, adjusting his specs. You lifted the bag up in your arms repeatedly, a laborious job , as it was starting to slip out of your grasp. “What? Seriously? You? Giving me a ride home?”  
He nodded, pondering over what he probably thought was his duty to protect you, before being suicide prevention, now delivering you safely back into warmth and security. You sighed un-expectantly, but then relented grudgingly. “Fine. Ok. Don’t you go pull a Ted Bundy on me.” He looked extremely taken-aback by that, it almost made you smile. When you looked back into the bag, at the rope, it was briefly an electrical yellow colour, with black eyes wringing around the individual fibre strands.

You blinked, and the eyes winked back at you.


	2. Chapter Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue on what I'm doing with this send help.

Trigger warning: There is a extensive mention to the reader having self-harm scars.

You climbed into Stanford Pines’s car, seriously doubting if doing so was a good idea. No matter how externally attractive he seemed to be, he could always be, who knew, maybe a psychopath? A serial killer? A deranged rapist? A mad, mad, deluded scientist? Maybe all of the above? Who knew. It was too late now to leave though, anyway, as he shifted the gear stick, gently pressing on the accelerator. You stared out the window of the car, watching the heavy rain droplets cascade down. It was cold. Wet. Generally miserable. You shivered, drawing your coat together around your freezing body. Trapped. You felt trapped in your mind, in this car, _and_ on earth, for all the good it did. “So, how do I know you’re not going to kill me?” You questioned, your gaze flicking to Ford’s concerningly shaking hands.

“You don’t. But luckily, he’s not here.” “Who’s he?” Ford gulped, you could hear his Adam’s apple bob down to the bottom of his throat. “Someone. None of your concern, really. It’s fine.” But it didn’t really feel so fine to you. You still had the paper bag in your hands, rested on your lap, the allusive rope still inside a butchered then processed strip-age of tree. You had entered the supermarket searching for your destruction, but you had found a young, scientific nerd instead. The universe worked in mysterious ways, ways you were too scared to face, ways that you wanted to avoid by ending them. You glanced over at Stanford again, and for some reason, he was sweating profusely.

“Hey, are you alright?” Those were the first words he had said to you, and now you were saying them to him. “I just really don’t want him to come. I’ve tried to fight against his control for so long. I can feel my mind slipping. I’m sorry.” You were very concerned, it seemed like the man was losing his marbles just five minutes after meeting you.

You seemed to have that effect on people.

“Who? Who are you talking about?” When you asked those words, something very strange happened. The rope in your bag started to levitate, illuminated by a bright yellow colour. You watched it in dazed shock, watched as it slithered almost like a serpent around your arm. It kind of tickled, in a pleasant way. It snaked around your scars, scars you had left either deliberately or un-deliberately. But scars all the same. You shuddered as the rope marred over your freshest cut, the whole thing felt like a particularly weird fever dream. “Uh, Stanford? What the hell is going on?” “That would be Bill.” And when you turned to face Ford, his eyes were an electric yellow colour, slit down the middle with black pupils.

You screamed loudly at once, tensing up with fright. In shock, you tried to madly, and manically, open the door, but your fingers were too fevered with shaking too properly work. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Ford kept on repeating that, like a mad old lunatic who had harboured a blood lust. The rope then suddenly stopped coiling around your throat tightly, and everything returned back to normal. In total silence you continued to gape, your mouth hanging open. “Jesus Christ Almighty. What the hell was that? What are you, Stanford Filbrick Pines? You sub-human freak? Is that what you are? Were you going to kill me? You people are sick! I don’t, holy shit, I don’t know!” Ford just kept on driving calmly, his face slicked with sweat.

“That was just Bill Cipher. He’s an, uh, work partner of mine. He probably wasn’t going to harm you. He seems to have taken an interest to you.” You almost thew up your stomach bile, you could still feel the rope irritating your arm flesh. “Bill Cipher, the rope?” Ford almost smiled, looking a little too delirious for your liking. “No, no. He just manipulated the rope to his will. He’s a dream demon.” Your mind was spinning. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. Maybe the rope had actually worked, and this was just some sick, crazy, fucked-up afterlife you were stuck in. “I think I’m going to be sick.” You fought back an urge to heave, almost out-of-your-mind in shock.

“You don’t look too good.” “You think so? You really think so? I was almost strangled by a levitating piece of rope, which had magically turned yellow, your eyes were almost demonic, and you seem to be in collaboration with a fucking dream demon! What! WHAT! Am I supposed to be sane right now?” Ford merely sighed, rubbing at his eyebrows in exasperation. “Look, Y/N, it goes like this. You were at the supermarket searching for a means to end your life, I offered to help you, and to give you a ride home, Bill decided to show up and toy with us, he’s gone now, probably off to manipulate people’s dreams again, it’s no big deal.” Nope. Nope. Nope. No big deal. None at all.

It was all fine and dandy. You continued to breathe heavily, even your shocked gasps louder than the pouring rain outside. “I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m calm.” You weren’t calm. “Look, maybe you should come back with me to the uh, shack. I’ll try to explain it better to you there. I’ll make Bill apologise.” You were still too shocked to say anything else, so you could only find the strength to nod once, your stomach weak and churning. “Fidds is going to be pissed. We were supposed to be working on the portal tonight. I told him no banjo playing past six-“ Ford’s mad muttering stumbled away in the background of your hearing, as your eyesight had latched onto something in the rear view mirror. Another flash of yellow, shaped into the three identical points of a triangle. There was an eye. One eye, and it winked at you again.

Time skip.

Ford slowly drove to a stop, taking his foot off the accelerator and placing it on the break. The car puttered it’s fumes, before finally giving a soft ‘hmph’ like sound, fully resting in its designated parking spot. You climbed out cautiously, the rain instantly trickling through your hair and over your skin. You titled your head up, just letting the feel of God’s material tears wash over you in all their purifying beauty. You heard Ford exit the car, with him giving a single awkward cough. “We should, we should head inside.” He muttered, pointing at his place of inhabitancy: A woodland, solitary, lonesome shack surrounded by extensive Pine tree forest.

You raised your eyebrow at him, assessing the whole enveloping area. It made you slightly shiver, you had a feeling many bad things would happen at this spot, with this antsy, glasses-donning young man standing right beside you. “Ok, fine. We’re here to have a one night stand, aren’t we?” Ford’s cheeks caught aflame, his gaze dropping to the ground in modesty. “Y/N, I can assure you, I wasn’t thinking about that. I’m really sorry if it seemed so. I don’t mean to offend you, I pondered that we could just remain friends. But uh, if you want to, I mean, you are particularly beautiful-.” You laughed for the first time in a while, doubling over with some mischievous, hearty stomach pain.

“I’m, are you actually serious Ford? I was joking with you! Sheesh, you’re so awkward and up-tight. Where are your woman skills man, did none of the ladies fall for you when you were at school, or at college? I’m very surprised. Your bumbling must have scared them off. Now, show me your domestic boyfriend ‘Fidds’, which is short for….?” You were then entering the cabin, brown bag of rope still heavy in your hands. Ford swung the door open for you, and you purred in appreciation as it was particularly warm inside, with multiple candles burning and the fire heath roaring. “It’s not much, but it’s home.” You smiled softly. “I think it’s brilliant.”

You could see the pride in his eyes, but he tried to remain humble. With the loud chit-chat the two of you were making, it alerted a third person to then appear in the room, a young man with dirty blonde, brownish hair and a long, slim nose. “Who did Bill attack now, Ford?” The man sighed, sharing an exasperated look with Stanford. “This is Y/N. He tampered with her, uh, rope, save the un-needed information about why she has it.” “Rope? Why does she have a rope?” It was such an awkward, embarrassing, uncomfortable conversation, you wanted to save discomfort and end it as soon as possible. “I have it for reasons. But here, you can have it now, because this girl is too intrigued to die.”

You noticed Fiddleford was covered in grime and oily grease, so maybe he worked in construction or engineering. You figured he could do with some extra material. You threw the rope at him, chucking away your ultimate destruction. Eh. You could always just buy a new one anyway. “This will be useful. Thanks.” A brief silence interlude ensued, with you looking around again. The living room was a homely space, with throw rugs, an over-stuffed leather couch, and for some reason, multiple depictions of the same triangle that had seemed to be following you around. “So, Y/N, uh, I can make Bill apologise for messing with you like that. It wasn’t right at all. I’m sure you’re feeling very shaken up.”

You were, you couldn’t deny that, but now you were just feeling happy to have a distraction from your own mind, from your own turbulent thoughts “Sure. I’m intrigued by this Bill. I’m sure he’s a real character.” Ford ushered away, muttering something about a ‘summoning circle’. That would be, that would be very disturbing….. Fiddleford Hadron McGucket approached you, shaking his head. “You know, in secret, I don’t trust Bill at all. I really don’t. The awful things he makes Ford say, it just gives me the creeps…. Can you imagine, Ford always banging around on the doors, yelling, screaming, getting upset, a malicious look in those yellow eyes…..” “Bet you ten bucks he’s like Ford’s personalised Satan, always tempting him with deals.”

“Oh, trust me, he’s way worse than that.”

You gulped.


	3. Chapter Three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> B r a in r o tttttttt……..t.  
> This becomes very, very dark and very, like, pessimistic to read, with trauma and suicidal ideation, Bill triggers some of the reader's past memories, and it's much more darker than the past two chapters. Tell me what you think!! Should I write more darker stuff like this?

Trigger warnings: Heavy past trauma, reader's descriptions of abuse, suicide mentions, general disdain and heavy themes.

So Fiddleford Hadron McGucket had directed you back down into Ford’s private study space, taking a rickety old elevator shaft. You had entered it silently in awkwardness, and it had descended down to the second level of the basement. You had gotten off in continued silence, the temperature of the air there so much colder and eerier than in the living room. You walked into the sight of Ford ushering around the small, cramped space, lighting numerous candles with a match. He was having trouble with the last one, so you decided to help him. You took the match, slipping it out of his cold, six fingers. Your flesh met his, and in any other way when it signaled love like in the movies, you could suppose it was romantic, but it just made you laugh.

  
He was so fidgety, so up-tight with nervous energy. “Here. Let me.” You struck the match against the box, the sound and explosion of light the only sound in the room aside from breathy, uncomfortable silence and water dripping through far-away pipes. Ford took back the match from you, lighting another candle before snuffing the former energy out. There was glass pyramids set up around the room, and the carpet, oddly, was imprinted with a design of a yellow triangle. You crossed your arms, considering the whole ideal. “This is giving me Satanism vibes. You two do know, that this is all very suspicious, right? It’s like your very own little ‘The Exorcist’ in Gravity Falls.” You muttered, collapsing down onto a chair with legs too exhausted to stand.

  
Ford then lowered himself down onto he ground, placing himself in a Buddha-like pose, with his hands all zen-like. You found it kind of comedic. Fiddleford merely sighed, shaking his head in a ‘I can’t believe this is my life’ kind of way. “All this because I wanted to buy some rope. Nice job trying to impress me Ford. I’m impressed. Can I go home now?” But when Ford suddenly opened his eyes, they were colored yellow again, a metallic, copper-like, dreadful yellow. “Oh, Mother Mary.” His pupils were slit down the middle, the dream demon inside his mind forcing him to stand up. “My, what a beautiful little thing you are.” A new voice suddenly purred that mortifying statement out of Ford’s mouth.

  
The voice was slightly metallic, it sounded too digitalized too be human, like bad, scratchy sound effect from an old timey movie. You just stared, watching as the demon inside Stanford Pines’s mind operated his body as a vessel, a puppeteer handling the scientist’s strings of fate. The hybrid of man and devil slinked over to you, grinning creepily.  
You backed into a corner of the room, a counter resurgence of like-minded, traumatizing memories rushing to your head, almost spelling you with dizziness. “Woah, hey, I’m not going to hurt you, little lamb.” Bill Cipher stated with a grin, using the scientist’s eyes to strip down your body, like he wanted to undress you with those cursed black pupils.

  
You felt violated. Offended. And so very, very scared. “Call me little lamb one more time and I’ll-“ “You’ll what? You’ll what, Miss Y/N Y/L/N? I know all about you. I know everything about you. I know your father was a heavy drinker, he always had a six-pack in the fridge. I know your mother was oddly distant and indifferent, she read her romance books to escape into a different world. I know you had one Pisces best friend in childhood, she was great at cheering you up, I know she mysteriously disappeared one day. I know you almost drowned in that lake while playing a game of tag, until an un-known force saved you by your Achilles heel. I know everything. I see everything.”

  
  
You gaped at this sadistic dream demon in front of you, shocked out of your mind about all the information he could hold over your troubled head. How dd he know all of that? Just how was it possible? Had he been stalking you your whole life? Could he access your memoires? Had he already fleshed out every single bit of your persona? He was too powerful to be anything but trouble.  
You wanted to test him, you wanted to try snipe away some of his cruel arrogance.  
“And do you know what I was intending to do with the rope, Mr Cipher?” He looked away guilty, mimicking Ford’s language to look almost saddened. “You would’ve wasted your life Y/N. Going through with that option is selfish and utterly stupid, and so below what I expect of you pathetic mortal beings.” He snapped at you with that, for some reason, angered by your own self-destructive will.

  
“Get out of Ford’s mind right fucking now, and maybe, just maybe, I won’t ever consider doing it again.” Bill assessed you deeply with Ford’s eyes, before sighing. He must’ve seen something in you, something he had never seen before, something he probably would’ve wanted to twist to his own will. He shortly appeared by Ford’s side, the latter almost fainting onto the ground due by nausea and mental vertigo.  
So, as now you could see fully with your sight, Bill was a yellow, top-hatted, bow-tied triangle, with one singular eye smacked onto his floating, hovering two-dimensional form. It was a peculiar thing to behold, but so much had happened in the recent minutes you weren’t particularly surprised or shocked. It was just a dream, right? Just a really, really, really weird dream.

  
“On my eyes, I must be dreaming. I must be sleeping right now. This is the afterlife isn’t it? This is hell. I’m in hell.” “If this was hell, we would be having a lot of fun together Y/N. And of course, I am a dream demon, after all.” You assessed the scene of a passed-out Ford, shooting a look at Bill immediately.  
“Is he going to be alright?” Bill shrugged, not bothered to deflect his borderline use and abuse of Ford. “He’ll be fine, trust me. He’s just experiencing a little mind fatigue.” “A little? Just a little? He looks dead and gone to me.” Overwhelmed with a strange feeling of disgust and shame, you turned around, heading out of the personalized study room space.

  
Bill Cipher followed suit, drifting through the air with his two dimension yellow form. “What? Are you scared by me, miss Y/N?” “Scared, no. Disturbed, yes. And I’m not excited. I’m not happy. I’m not amused. All this supernatural bullshit going on in this small, sleepy town of Gravity Falls, you think I would be intrigued enough to stay alive, but I just still want to die. You’ve brought up my traumatic memories again Bill. What did my father to do me in my youth? Did he touch me inappropriately, **_Bill?_** Did you watch over me when that happened, peeping at me like a creep with your own little disgusting eye?”  
Bill sighed, following you as you ascended back up the elevator. “All I can hear from you is a young, healthy, attractive human female I could use to my advantage whining and complaining just because their father yelled at them a few times in their childhood. He was drunk most of the time, don’t you understand that Y/N? You could have ran away from home. You could’ve worn less revealing clothing. You could have fought back. You could have been less of an absolute coward. Why didn’t you call the police? Because you were ashamed of your dark secret? Is that what it was, _ **Y/N?**_ ”

  
Snapped, like a twig broken in strong hands, you snapped.

  
Mad.

  
You were mad.

  
You turned to face Bill angrily, pointing a finger into where you supposed his heart was. The sensation of touching him was weird, the texture like a smoother, more polished version of cemented bricks.  
“Alight, you listen here you little fucking squirt. If you really think you can just waltz up to Ford and his domestic boyfriend Fidds, use them as your labourers, treat them like trash, trick and manipulate them, AND get away with it, you’re wrong. Dead wrong. They might trust you, but I certainly don’t. You think you can charm me with your stupid little bow-tie and your stupid little sweet talk about how I’m a pretty face?

  
I know you Bill. What was your daddy like? Did he beat you up Bill? Did he abuse you Bill? Did he always stare at your behind Bill, even when you wore long, modest pants? Did he guilt-trip you, did he threaten you, did he blame his clinical depression on you, did he say, ‘If you don’t love me anymore Y/N, I’ll kill myself’?  
Did your daddy ever say that to you, Bill? Is that what has turned you into this disgusting, hideous, revolting, puking monster I see in front of me? Did you ever say, ‘Please dad, please stop. I’m scared. Don’t hurt me. Stop touching me there. I’ll keep it a secret. It’ll be our little secret. I won’t be a naughty girl. I won’t call the cops. I swear.’ You piece of shit Bill. Don’t talk to me about **_my_** fucking trauma, and don’t make _**me**_ seem like the fucking victim, I swear to _**fucking** _God-”

  
But Bill suddenly clicked his fingers, and you couldn’t speak. In a sudden shock you felt for your mouth, but instead, there was a strip of stainless steel metal, disabling you from talking. Bill had materialized that for you, wanting to silence your anger. You panicked, your hands flying, because shit, you couldn’t even speak, you couldn’t even fucking breathe.  
After choking on nothing for a few horrendous moments, Bill un-clicked his fingers, enabling you to suck air into your laboring esophagus again. You fell to the ground, almost retching up the infinite nothingness in your stomach.

  
Ford would currently, still down in the private study space, be getting up again from the floor, helped by his best friend Fidds. They would comfort each other, laughing about a new dark humor joke the latter had just made up. They would go on with their day, working, chatting, eating together, visiting the Gravity Falls museum together.

  
Where were you currently.

  
By yourself.

  
With no one to help.

  
On the dirty ground.

A disgusting, revolting, sexually abused shell with nothing but bad luck and a few puffs of weed traveling around your nervous system.  
“You piece of shit. End me Bill. Just end it already. End my life you coward. I don’t care. No one cares about me. Go back to terrorizing Ford. He will outsmart you, eventually. You should have just killed me. I am suicidal, after all. I’ll just end me myself then. I want my rope back. Fuck Fiddleford for taking it. He’s never fucking suffered in his fucking life, computer genius and fucking bullshit.”

Your mind was spinning.

Pain. That was what your life had been so far. Were the angels laughing at you from heaven? God, was God punishing you for your disobedience? If you died right now, would you be happier, would Ford care? You saw him there. With his brown hair, with his crooked glasses, with his brown coat. You always saw him. He wouldn’t be sad if you died. He would be happy, wouldn’t he? He would let you go, he would know you would be in a better place. He had so much to live for. Fiddleford. His science research. His paranormal interests. His happiness, he would always smile, he knew just how much his brother loved him.  
What did you have to life for.

A father, mistreated in his own youth, burdening his abuse down onto you. A mother, unwise and unaware, a one night stand that wasn’t worth it. A sister, that you hadn’t seen in so long, famous, rich, a novel author with five published books. A best friend, never seen again, maybe a life taken by her own hands, or a murder by cruel manipulators. A Ford, that you only knew because of your pain, if he hadn’t seen you contemplating the rope, you would have never met him at all. A God that wasn’t there. Your name that you hadn’t wanted to be born to.

  
Your memories were surging back, flashes of your father watching your every move closely, your mother hiding in her room, reading Jane Eyre in her hands, your sister moving out at the first chance she got, your sister getting her happy ending while you were still cooked up to rot at home, considering the local gun store that sold those automatics, considering the bottle of pills in the bathroom cabinet, considering Ford’s broken face as you sought a means to end your life, considering God, why, WHY?

  
Your habits of turning your toys around to preserve their innocence when _he_ entered the room, your habits of flinching away from other people’s movements, your habits of either revealing too much or nothing at all, your habits of bad coping mechanisms like sex and drugs, your habits of having to pretend you were alright when you weren’t alright at all. Flashes of so much bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad!  
Bill made a satisfied-like ‘mmm’ sound, happiness on his face. “That was a warning Y/N. I can do much worse. You will get over your trauma eventually, or I’ll force you to. Your father was a sick, sick man. I made him suffer. When he was withering to delirium with that brain tumor I inserted in his frontal lobe, I had never been happier in my immortal life.”

  
The elevator lift tinged, the signal it had reached its destination. You stumbled out into the sound of pouring rain outside, drunk and swaying like the after effects of alcohol, wanting to end it all, tears in your blurry eyes, your father’s memories all too real again, disgusting, disgusting _ **, disgusting**_.  
 _You knew. You knew it. You were going down the path of your father, weren’t you? You didn’t want to. Please God, don’t let me be my father. Don’t let me be him. Don’t let me be the demon._  
 _And he had been buried six feet under, with no one caring for him at all, with his own childhood being a disaster, with his own crippling resentment of God, of this cruel world, of you, no one had loved him, no one had cared for him, no one had wanted him, he had suffered, he had shriveled up into pain, spasming and foaming at the mouth due to a collection of abnormal cells in his brain, spewing gibberish, and wetting his own bed, his very own body turning against him with an un-curable cancer like it was disgusted by its own fucking existence._  
 _Look at him now._

  
Six feet under.

  
_Look at you now._

  
Traumatized again.

  
“Allow me to walk you home Y/N.”

  
“No! Fuck off!”

  
But Bill followed you anyway.


	4. Chapter Four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know something has gone wrong when the only person that cares about you is fucking Bill Cipher. Lmao.

You exited the shack at once, walking out into the pouring rain outside. It made you shiver instantly, so cold, so damp, so miserable, so endearing. You sat down depressingly onto the front porch of Ford’s cabin in the woods, still reconsidering recent events. Memories. Still flashing in your mind. Of a bad father. Of a absent mother. Of a more successful sister. Of a missing person poster for your best friend. Of a move to Gravity Falls, with your trauma even here, still bugging you, still following you, still haunting you. So many memories of you suffering. Bill assessed you with his one eye, you could almost sense the cruel, crude smirk on his face. You ignored him, trying to quell your rigid, rampant tears.

He had triggered your traumatic memories again, awashing you in sadness, anger, resentment, pain and fear. Your hands were still shaking, your mind was still heaving back to that coil of rope in the supermarket store. Bill could notice this, a dream demon, and an avid mind-reader of your racing thoughts. He wouldn’t let you die. He would keep you alive, to suffer, for him, always, because you were a pretty face, and nothing more, a pretty face he wanted to exploit until he had no more use of it.

“Y/N. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for triggering your memories.”

_I’m sorry._

It was two words he probably had never ever said before in his life, and he would probably never say them again in the future, except for now, to you, in front of the shack, in the pouring wet rain, Gravity Falls, Oregon, the United States of America, Earth, the milky way, the universe, a simulation, God’s revolver, and twice and shiny, a dreary, never-ending Saturday, the fourth of October, 1980. You looked back at him, rain water dripping off your eyelashes like a dramatic movie scene shift, considering his words.

“Sorry doesn’t help Bill. You’re sadistic. You’re completely sadistic. I’m not charmed anymore. I’m just mad. And I’m tired. So tired of it all. I’m never going to be free of my past, am I?” You rubbed at your temples, the raindrops rolling down your face, almost like they were combining, morphing with your tears. “I just want to help you get over your trauma, Y/N. That’s all it was. I know how hard it is for you, but for me, a dream demon, your effort seems a little bit pathetic. I wanted your father to suffer, but I don’t want you to suffer. I want you to have the best life possible. I want you to be beautiful and free of all your demons, except for me, of course.”

“And how will I achieve that?” “By working on your trauma Y/N, trust me. I can help you with that, look, I’ll make a dream demon’s deal. You deserve so much more than the shitty cards that you’ve been dealt with in your life, by your shitty God, in this shitty simulation.” “Hey, don’t you dare diss God. Everything happens for a reason, and all that reeking, positivity-infested bullshit.” He smiled at you, floating closer to the wooden porch out front. “And that reason is that we were destined to meet Y/N. You and me. We’ll take down God.” You almost laughed, standing up again into the constant rain-fall, the individual drops plopping down onto your hair. “That’s the shittiest reason I’ve ever heard.”

So, ok, you were feeling a bit better now. Bill’s apology had been utterly pathetic, but it had been an apology all the same, coming from a dream demon who had never known love in his entire life, that must have meant something, that must have meant at least a small something good, right? He knew it. He knew he had grabbed the good side of your attention once again, a look of glee on his face. “It’s lovely weather, isn’t it Y/N?” “Fuck you.” You turned around, intending to just walk back home no matter how drenched you became in the rain without him.

Bill suddenly appeared next to you, a black umbrella in his outstretched black hand. “Here.” You took the object from him, thankful for the protection from God’s ominous tears. Ok. Whatever. Fine! You were intrigued by him, intrigued enough to put up with his hammering and his sadistic pleasures. As long as he didn’t hurt you again with his words, well, you wanted to see how this whole thing planned out, this whole weird, crazy, insane, peculiar thing with a girl and a dream demon. “How very romantic, walking together in the rain.” You stated, almost getting the happy bounce in your step back. He sighed, his yellow form bobbing in the air next to you. “I can kill you at any given moment Y/N.”

You paused in the middle of the road, pondering his rapid-fire warning. “Go ahead.” But Bill didn’t. There was a brief silence, but you couldn’t bear innating the painfulness of your own thoughts. You needed Bill’s thoughts instead, his twisted, insane, psychopathic thoughts, you couldn’t stand your own silence, and, barf, his words were way more bearable than nothing at all. “So, what are you exactly Bill? A Dorito? A child’s pyramid Giza model? The illuminati? The FBI? Cia? National security? Wait a second, you’re not God yourself, are you?” “No, of course not. I’m not any of those things. Religion is a scam and I built those pyramids myself. I’m a being of ultimate power.”

“Hmmmm, interesting. So, what can you do? Can you delete the moon from the sky? Can you give someone sleep paralysis? Do you know who assassinated JFK? Can you read anyone’s thoughts? Could you read Ronald Regan’s thoughts? Could you interfere with his presidential campaign? Can you-“ But suddenly you were delivered In front of a car, teleported by the click of Bill’s fingers. You screamed out loud, narrowly avoiding being run over by a Ford mustang. The metallic blue car blazed past you, flying through a puddle of gross, browned, muddied water to drench you from head to toe.

“You never learn, do you Y/N?” You raised the umbrella again, almost like it was a consecutive routine, trying to brush your fear away. “Psssh, I could have let that kill me. No biggie.” Bill raised his one eye at you, adjusting his top-hat. “I see Y/N. So you don’t want to die? Very interesting. I have got you beat. I knew it. I knew you wanted to stay alive for my charm.” “What!? No! Of course I want to die. It’s just that, death by car in the middle of the road seems very pathetic.” He sighed again, clicking his fingers. You were in suddenly in his arms, in his arms high up in the chilly, still-raining air.

You screamed piercingly loud, watching the black umbrella fall from your shaking hands like it was a bad omen. “What! Are you fucking crazy Bill! Put me fucking down right fucking now!” Bill laughed, dropping you from his arms so you tumbled through the air. You fell and fell and fell, grabbing at nothing, plummeting back down to earth. But he caught you again just in time with his fast-switching teleportation, the umbrella positioned over your head at once. It was fucking annoying. An annoying, annoying, game of cat and mouse, and you were stuck in a never-ending cheese trap.

“I fucking hate you Bill. Go to hell.” “Been there, done that. And it looks a lot like your house.” Another imminent click of his fingers, suddenly your surroundings changed, from instead of the Pine tree forest, to the remote, quiet street your house was positioned on. You nearly vomited into a nearby bush with the world giving way beneath you, dizzy, distorted, disoriented, and full of rage. You marched up to your drive-way, half-wanting to escape from Bill, half hoping he was going to follow. And he did, sliding up to you on your front porch. “Well, Y/N, its been fun, but I have to go.”

“Finally. Good fucking riddance Bill.” He handed you back the umbrella, which he had morphed into a boutique of beautiful red roses, just for you. It almost made your heart flutter. “For m’lady. Goodnight. Sweet dreams.” You took the flowers from him, and he disappeared in a flash of yellow.


	5. Chapter Five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no idea if anyone has even read up to this point in the fic but anyway, lmao, uh, here's the next chapter, btw, Ariana Grande is dropping her new album soon, be ready to stream and get her to No.1 on the charts.

Trigger warning: There's a few mentions of your classic trauma and stuff.

Bad day. Bad depression day. The whole word had just seemed to drag you down, everything just seemed lifeless, empty and bleak, ever since Bill had recounted your traumatic memories with the faint, tortuous ‘ding’ of the elevator shaft reaching it’s destination. It wasn’t that you were still angry at Bill anymore, because you weren’t, it was more that it just signified how terrible your life had been so far. Objectively, your life had been hard. Bad. Rough. Difficult to come to terms with. And now it showed, because you were struggling to get out of bed, the comforts of your pillow and blankets were all too seemingly inviting. These days happened, you would just have to power through them. But with your current mindset, everything seemed all too miserable, insignificant and out-of-balance.

Until the doorbell rang. Just once, with you too overly-disconnected to notice. But then it rang again relentlessly, annoying the remaining brain cells you had that were not trained to nothingness or comfort food or even the dark path leading to a rope in the supermarket store. You then scrambled of your bed, sighing in irritation, shrugging your coat on quickly, widely trying to brush your messy hair. You stumbled towards the door, flinging it open at once. “What! Who the _fuck_ is it! What do you want! Bill, I swear to fucking God, that better not be you!” It was Stanford Pines instead, hair combed all neatly. You raised your eyebrows at him with a humored expression, crossing your arms in a considerate manner. “Why, hello.”

With your lips you blew away that one annoying strand of hair obscuring your face, just like how the girls always did in the movies.

“Ok. This is weird. But it’s good to see you too, Ford. How did you get my address? Are you thankful I haven’t hung myself yet? I almost brought myself another rope.” You then opened the door to your house for him, inviting him inside. You had tried to clean the place up earlier, but had been distracted by an existential crisis of your own neuron cells, supposedly, firing out of order. Sounded pathetic in theory, but your mind could go to a very dark place with little to no effort required at all. “That’s a very morbid joke. I looked up your address in the phone papers. And I’m glad you’re uh, still alive.” Ford returned you that greeting in a slow slew of words, handing you the floral object in his hands. Roses. Just like the exact ones Bill had given to you a few days ago. Hmm. So you could see, two burdened, paranormal tragedies were fighting for your attention.

You took the roses from Ford, placing them inside a purple vas your grandmother had owned. She had handed you down a vas in her death. A vas. How disappointing was that when your older sister had gotten her how-many-karat golden wedding ring. Bill’s boutique was already still in the vas wilting away, so you had to squeeze the rest in tightly. “Who are the rest from?” “Your hotter, womanizing twin brother. I assume he’s better than you at talking to girls. I would sure hope so.” “What? How do you know about Stanley?” You goggled at Stanford Pines, your wild guess so very accurate. “Holy shit man. I was joking. But I’m a freaking psychic. Let’s talk about that.” “So, Y/N, anyway, forgetting about Stanley, I was thinking, do you want to go to the Greasy Diner with me?” You stared at Ford glumly, an exasperated look on your face. Thankfully, your depression was starting to slip away again, up-rooted by Ford’s cluelessness on romance. It was kind of funny. But also kind of painful.

“What? Have you fallen in love with me already? Kind of creepy, Ford.” He blushed, adjusting his crooked, nerdy glasses. “No, of course not. Nope like that would be offensive or anything though. I’m sorry Y/N, uh, you are beautiful, it’s just, um, I’m not like _that_.” “My gosh, stop your stammering Ford! Like _what_.” “ Like that. Like Stanley in a way, I guess. I don’t know. He always got the girls I never did.” He hurried along the awkward silence that ensued, wringing his hands anxiously. “We could go to the diner as friends of course. Just friends. Friends. Acquaintances. Buddies.” You assessed him in suspicion, but finally relented. “Ok. Fine. Sure. Yippee, or whatever.” “Great! How about right now?” What the _fuck_?? Ford was seemingly so properly clueless he had no idea about his own almost comedic in-experience with love. Needy. Damn, he was needy, but in an affectionate way almost.

“Yikes! Ok, first of all, you ask a girl out for a night time date, at a fancy restaurant, second of all, not in the middle of the day at a cheap, run-down diner, and third of all, you don’t bargain her acceptance with roses. You’re way too overly eager Mr. six fingers, but seeing that I have nothing else to do but wallow in my pathetic self-pity, fine.” You slipped on your shoes, walking past the roses to exit your house. It was slightly dreary outside, but not bleak enough to be miserable. You didn’t need to ask, just spotted Ford’s car immediately, climbing into the passenger seat at once. It was a long, silent drive to the local diner, and you wished it could have been filled with talking, but the both of you didn’t want to initiate the conversation first, so you just sat in uncomfortable pleasantness.

You watched the towering Pine trees blur by instead, and the greying sky, and occasionally, wait, what in the world was that?? The gnomes, little, tiny men scampering around on two feet. They even waved at you, bottles of what you could assume was fairy dust in their hands, by what you knew from old folklore stories. You waved back at the ones not displaying rude gestures, a slightly disturbed but affectionate look on your face. Ford finally parked in the diner’s drive after ten minutes of silence, and you slipped out of the car, into the chilly windy air.

Five minutes later and you were seated down at a table, artificial light spewing from ceiling lights onto fake, neatly arranged plastic forks and spoons, the diner’s menu displayed in front of you. “So, how are you feeling about things?” Ford questioned, fiddling with his thumbs, his slightly-chewed cuticles. “Feeling about what?” He was about to say ‘about us’, but that seemed too forward. “Hmmm, about life I suppose.” You grimaced, and then shook your head. “Not good in all honesty. Fallen down a hole I think. I’m still traumatized by Bill recounting my bad memories.” “Really? When? What did he do to you? I swear, I can make him pay for saying anything bad. I’m sorry if you got hurt in the process. I swear, he’s not all that sadistic.” You pursed your lips, looking away, trying to avoid your father’s rough, aged face, who was almost sitting in the booth over from you like a cursed ghost always following you around.

“It doesn’t really matter Ford. It’s fine. It’s just, like, I was born without my consent, forced into a world I didn’t sign up for, and my parents couldn’t even care less to give me a happy up-bringing, if you’re going to have a child that depends on you, do it right, or else, like, what’s the fucking point?? Wow. Never mind. I’m sorry. That sounded a bit harsh. I just carry a lot of emotional baggage.” “No, it’s fine, I can understand you perfectly. My own pops Filbrick wasn’t exactly the kindest man, I’m assuming his father was like that too, so on and so forth up our generational roots. You know, passing down a family lineage of toughness and strength. Anyway, I’m sorry to hear that Y/N. It must be hard for you to try find happiness.”

His words weren’t much of a consolation, as he was seemingly mistreated himself, which wasn’t that much of a good sign, but at least they were more genuine than the usual bull-crap like ‘My dad also yelled at me when he was angry’. You had only known Ford for a short period of time, but he already knew you better than you knew yourself. “Sometimes I just think I would be better off dead, you know? No more misery. No more trauma, no more depression, no more suicidal thoughts. But also, the more trivial things, no more bills, no more health insurance, no more traffic jams.” Ford looked at you in concern, alarm blaring in his rounded, attractive brown eyes.

“Trust me, that’s not true Y/N. You wouldn’t be better off dead. I’ve felt like that plenty of times before with my isolation in the shack you’ve seen, with my stress of science endeavors, and sometimes, even guilt about what happened to Stanley. We all have our dark periods in life, and we just have to preserve through them until the light comes. And it will. It will come. I promise.” “Yeah, anyway, thank you for saving my life the other day, with the rope, I mean, I was in a really bad place, you know, and I still am, but at least I’m alive.”

He nodded, relived. 

Your meal then came, waffles with golden butter and maple syrup. You purposefully splattered the syrup into his face, so that he had to wipe it away from his eyes. “Hey! It’s everywhere on my shirt now! And this was a new shirt I bought just for this date!” You ignored the word ‘date’, grinning instead. “I hate you Y/N.” “You love me though, don’t you?” Ford remained silent. Bad sign. Bad sign. Good sign, a good sign only if you shared the same feelings for him. “Anyway, who is this Stanley Pines?” You questioned, trying to nibble at your waffles crumb by crumb. “He was my twin brother.” “ _Was_? Did you just say _was_? Did they find him in a back alley dead or something?”

“Is, he _is_ my twin brother, and no, I hope to God he’s not dead yet, even though he ruined my life. We had a big falling out. We haven’t seen each other in a long time. I think it was 1972 or something.” “Well, who started the fight in the first place?” “I did, I suppose. I was mad because he wrecked my chance to go to my dream school, literally wrecking my science fair project. And I had worked so hard on that! It’s like, I poured my blood, sweat and tears into that thing, and it was such a disaster in the end. Disaster. Couldn’t be fixed. Couldn’t even be salvaged. I just threw it in the nearest trash can.” You analyzed him, slightly dubious.

“That’s plenty petty Ford. You’re still incredibly smart, anyway. I bet he just didn’t want you to leave. Siblings are always clingy like that. He only wanted your attention because he loved you. Same with my father, but that’s extremely fucked up in different ways you don’t want to know about.” You could tell exaggerating it further was a hard topic for Ford by his body language, so you stopped broaching it. “Anyway, how has your life been so far Y/N? From what I’m hearing, especially in your childhood, not too good? I’m always thinking about you when we’re apart. Not in a creepy way though, just, um, hoping you’re well.”

You sunk lower into your seat, trying to not choke on past occurrences. “Not very satisfactory, yeah. You know, rough childhood, bad cards, just the assumption that God gives his harshest battles to his strongest soldiers. I don’t want this fucking battle anymore, any day, anytime, I’m always suffering because of it. Anyway, I moved here to Gravity Falls, I work at a hardware store. And you know, I could’ve bought the rope from there free of charge, but they know about my mental health and stopped me. I also commission paintings and stuff in my free time.”

“You’re an artist?” “Yeah. Like, I was traumatized and ridiculed in my childhood so God made up for it by giving me art skill. Counter balance. It doesn’t make the pain any less bearable anyway though.” “It sounds like you’ve gotten a fresh start here, the same as me I suppose. We both have demons.” The two of you continued to chat about the life, the universe, and everything.

It was good conversation, but you eventually got too lost in your thoughts to notice, that while staring out the window, Ford had tried to lean forward and kiss you….

Talk about being too needy.


End file.
